


Nostalgia

by AnnieVH



Series: Don't Come Back [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Domestic Violence, Gen, spinning spinsters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 18:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumple visits the pawnshop and meets an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: past domestic abuse (including psychological, verbal and sexual), past child abuse, terrible parenting all around. Anti-Milah, anti-Malcolm. Rated mature just for safety.
> 
> Verse: Don’t Come Back, a Behind Closed Doors remix
> 
> Beta: MaddieBonanaFana

Rumple had to force the door and, when it finally opened, there was a creaking sound that was not at all the way he remembered it. As with almost everything nowadays, it made him angry. He was ready to bet that Malcolm had never been here before. He'd bought the store out of his and Milah's hands way bellow the market price, watched them leave town, and then went on to completely ignore it because it'd have been too much of a bother to actually go through everything that was inside. He always told himself he'd get to it, as if the store were nothing but an annoying chore, like changing a burned out light bulb in a room you never entered. But ten years went by and he never did anything about it. After all, his son was gone and he'd taken the girl and the boy with him. He didn't care about his sister's shop now.

The state of the building was heartbreaking. The beautiful glass windows had been replaced with wooden panels, the painting was cracked or washed-out completely, and the sign that once proudly announced in golden letter _Gold's Pawnshop and Antiquities_ had faded and rusted. Yet, the moment he entered the cobweb-infested place and smelled the dust, Rumple felt his entire body be taken over by an undeniable peace, just like when he was a boy. Once he was inside Aunt Goldie's shop, there was nothing that could hurt him, not his father and not even Milah. This had always been the place he came to when he needed to feel safe.

He shouldn't have sold it, that had always been the greatest in his long list of regrets. He'd promised Aunt Goldie he'd keep it up after her death. She'd come from Scotland with nothing but her savings and Malcolm's promise that he wouldn't lift a finger to help her and her American girlfriend. But in the end, she made a life for herself and Aunt Rosie in Storybrooke, long before Malcolm tried to do the same. His Aunts were never rich, but they were comfortable and happy, which was probably why her brother resented her so much. That, and the fact that she owned one of the few buildings in town that didn't become his.

The moment Aunt Goldie died, he started making offers. They hadn't talked in two years, except for the occasional angry exchange, but he showed up at his door right after the funeral, with an offensively low offer and no condolences. For the next two years, Rumple was stubborn and tried to keep the business going, even though he was juggling two other jobs at the time. He needed the pawnshop to keep himself sane. It was still the place he escaped to, be it from the harsh reality or, later on, Milah's increasingly volatile moods. Eventually, it became too much and she convinced him it was for the best to let it go and leave town altogether. One of the patrons of the pub she worked at had told her about the many job opportunities in Boston so that might be their chance to start over. She talked about it, then screamed, then cried, and he gave in, as usual. To be here now, after the year he'd had, after the _decade_ he'd had, felt good.

The place was filthy and he could see already that, if his father hoped to make any money out of it now, he'd be very disappointed. There was no possibility that the most pricey and delicate items had survived that level of neglect. But at the same time, nothing had been moved. The game of chess was still at the corner of the counter, just as if he'd left it, though most pieces seemed to be missing. The garden windmill Aunt Rosie detested was on the floor, looking like nobody had touched it in ages – a gust of wind came through the door, lifting dust from its roof, but the blades didn't budge. There was a comforting familiarity to just standing here. He might actually bring Bae over some day, just to show him around, talk about Aunt Goldie and Aunt Rosie.

He headed for the back of the shop, leaving footprints on the dust. Touching the curtain that separated both rooms only made it fall off its rack.

“Another thing to fix up,” he told himself, and proceeded to the back.

Aunt Goldie's spinning wheel was still there. More than anything else, seeing that was a relief. He was sure Malcolm would have burned it, just to spite his sister. He didn't dare to sit at the stool, which would probably give in under his weight, but he did give the wheel a timid spin. Just like the door, the creaking was louder than he remembered, but the sound still made him smile. Father would never allow it, but he wished he could keep it, as impractical as it would be to move it to Glasgow with them.

Truly, he wished he could save the entire shop from his father's hands. He could really turn that place around, starting with the sign outside ( _Mr. Gold, Pawnbroker and Antiquities Dealer_ , he always thought that would look good) and a thorough cleaning that would restore the shop to its former glory. It would never make him as rich as his father – wouldn't that be nice? - but it'd make him happy. Bae could help him around after school until they'd saved enough money for college. He could even ask Belle to come work for him and save her from whatever deal she'd made with Malcolm. She seemed like a level-headed girl, he could trust her.

It didn't take long for Milah to intrude his fantasy. She had a smile on her face, which was how he usually remembered her, and her dark hair cascaded down her back and shoulders, instead of the practical ponytail she usually had on nowadays. Her green eyes looked so bright in his mind, and she kissed him full of tenderness.

“Today is going to be a good day, Rumple. I can feel it,” she told him, every other morning, when they were both young and naive.

It was never a good day, though. And by the time evening came, she'd realized that and stopped smiling.

The sound of steps interrupted his thoughts and Rumple felt his blood go cold, any feeling of security quickly replaced by fear.

 _Milah_.

“Hello?”

No. No, not Milah. A man. Probably one of his father's lackeys, coming in to check and see if he was doing what he was supposed to.

“Just a second,” he said. Taking a deep breath and forcing his hands to stop shaking. He had to get himself together.

Waiting near the door, there was a bespectacled man in a suit that had probably been bought in town, which his father wouldn't have approved of. He was already giving Rumple a hard time for the clothes he had.

“We're gonna have to buy you a decent suit,” he said. “And don't wear that checkered shirt again. Ever. You look like a tablecloth.”

“Can I help you?” Rumple asked the stranger.

The man eyed him from head to toe. He lacked the arrogance to be one of his father's lackeys. His manner was timid, and he looked sort of friendly.

“You're, uhn, Mrs. Gold's nephew, aren't you?”

No one had called him that in ages, but the title still made Rumple happy. Being Aunt Goldie's nephew was a good thing to be, and it was usually followed by better things than being Mr. Gold's son. Yet, he could only think of a handful of people who had ever called him that.

“Archibald Hopper,” the man said, before Rumple could either confirm or deny it. “I don't know if you remember me. We went to school together.”

Rumple felt his mouth slack open. “Archie?”

“Yes!” he said, happy to see recognition on his face. “Yes. Sorry for barging in, but I heard you were in town, and I saw the door was open and I-”

“You moved,” Rumple said, though maybe it was a stupid thing to say. “The last time I heard from you, you were living in...”

“Pennsylvania?”

“Orono.”

“Has it really been that long?”

Rumple shrugged, not knowing what to say. Yes, it had been that long. At least ten years since the last time he'd had any news from Archie Hopper, and at least fifteen since the last time he'd actually laid eyes on him. Just like most kids who had the chance, Archie left town promising to never come back, and Rumple couldn't blame him.

“Well, I moved to Pennsylvania after a while,” Archie told him. “But I came back a few years ago. My practice is just a couple of blocks away.”

“You became a doctor?”

“A shrink. Which is not a real doctor, according to my mom, but still.” He offered Rumple a smile. When he didn't say anything, Archie continued, “I see you couldn't stay away either.”

Rumple opened his mouth to answer, but he still didn't know what to say. He _had_ tried to stay away. Archie looked happy, maybe it had been his choice to move back in, but it sure as hell hadn't been his.

“I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?” Archie said, after Rumple remained quiet for much longer than he should have. “You must be busy.”

“No, I, yes,” Rumple finally said. “Yes, I'm helping my father with the shop. I... moved back to give him a hand.”

“It's nice to see that you patched things up.”

Rumple nodded slowly. “Right. He wants to clear the building, maybe start renting it.”

Archie looked around. “It... might take a while.”

Rumple sighed, “Yes.” Regardless of nostalgia, the fact remained that doing what his father had asked would take up a lot of time and demand a lot more effort than he first anticipated. “Believe me when I say he wasn't very forthcoming about the state of this place.”

“Not the best time to catch up, then,” Archie said.

“Sorry.”

“No, it's fine. I should have called. I mean, if I had your number.”

“It's good that you dropped in,” he said, and the sincerity in his voice surprised even himself. “It's nice to see an old friend.”

Archie gave him a smile and took a business card out of his pocket. “In case you want to catch up. You can bring the wife and kid, too, if you'd like.”

Rumple stared at him.

“You married, didn't you?” Archie said. “That's what I heard-”

“Yes,” Rumple answered. “Yes. And we have a son.”

“Well, bring them along. I'd love to meet Mrs. Gold.”

Rumple opened his mouth to say the dreaded words he seemed to be repeating too much lately (“I'm divorced.”) but instead, he just said, “I will. Thank you.”

 

*

 

Baelfire's frown had turned into a little smile by the time Rumple picked him up from school, though his answers to every question were typically vague.

“How was the first day?”

“It was fine.”

“Do you like your teachers?”

“They're okay.”

“Have a lot of homework?”

“Some.”

When Rumple asked, “Did you make any friends?” though, he said, “A few.” And then added, “Graham seems alright. He showed me around.”

“Good. That's really good. I told you you were going to fit in.” After a few steps, he said, “I met an old friend today. Archie Hopper. We met when we were about your age.”

“Were you close?”

Rumple thought about it. When he was growing up, he hadn't had a lot of friends. Most of his childhood and teenage years were spent going from home to the school and from school to Aunt Goldie's shop, where she could teach him how to spin and tell him everything about her latest acquisitions. Dad thought it wasn't befitting of a young man to spend so much time inside the house, especially with women like Aunt Goldie and Aunt Rosie.

“Anytime you want to come over here and start raising your son, feel free to do so,” Aunt Goldie told him, the one time he told her to stop pretending Junior was her child. Women like her could never be mothers. “Until the day you decide to be a man, though, you might consider shoving your opinions where no one else can hear them.”

Archie Hopper was a quiet kid who joined his class half-way through the first semester when his parents moved into town. He was small, though not as small as Rumple. Most boys had already gone through that dreaded change in their voices, but Archie, always a late bloomer, still sounded squeaky, which had earned him the moniker “cricket”. They were both an easy target for the bigger kids, and fending them together was much easier than facing them alone. They never hung out; Malcolm didn't want Rumple to have people over, and, according to Archie, “Mom doesn't want like it when I talk to other people. You can only trust your family.” But they still walked together to school and they had each other's backs. Rumple couldn't say that for a lot of people.

“I guess we were close,” he answered.

“Can I meet your friend someday?” Bae asked, catching his father off guard.

Rumple might have been fond of Archie, but the thought of sitting with him and talking about all the ways that life had let him down didn't sound very appealing. In the end, Archie had become a doctor, just like he'd always wanted to. Rumple, on the other hand, had nothing to show for himself, other than Baelfire.

“We'll see,” he told him. “Why don't you make us sandwiches while I talk to your grandpa?”

Malcolm was waiting in his study, slumped on his couch, an empty tumbler on the coffee table. Rumple thought he was asleep, but the moment he heard the door creak his eyes snapped open.

“Is that you, Junior?”

“Yes.”

Malcolm sat up, then threw his checkered shirt another glance just to wince at him a second time, and asked him, “How long do you think it will take you?”

“Pardon me?”

“You just came from the shop, didn't you?”

Straight into business, then.

“I did.”

“Well?”

“If you want it completely cleared and ready to be rented off, then... how about two years?”

Malcolm scoffed. “It can't be that bad.”

“It's worse. I've spent the last six hours trying to figure out where to start.”

“That wasn't a very productive use of your time.”

Rumple stared at him. “Do you _want_ to rent Aunt Goldie's shop, or are you doing this just to torment me?”

“It's _my_ shop. And I'm doing this to help you, if you recall. I don't need another building, but you need a place to stay.”

“But if you want that done in two months-”

“Do you want to go back to your motel-hopping?” his father interrupted, his voice amused. “That can be arranged.”

Rumple went quiet.

“Then go clean _my_ shop,” he concluded. To show the conversation was over, he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes again. Rumple was about to leave when he added, “You might want to consider being nicer to the hand that feeds you. All that cheekiness won't get you anywhere.”

 

 

 


End file.
